The Call of the Grey
by DarkenedFantasy
Summary: All Grey Wardens know when their time has come when the nightmares return. When the song begins to haunt their dreams. But how many ways can one leave to face one's death? There are infinite possibilities, infinite realities, for all Wardens, all peoples face death in different ways. It is finished. The time has come. How will you face your inevitable end, Grey Warden?
1. Whispers to an Elven Mage

**Whispers to An Elven Mage**

Tytannial Surana shivered in the chill of the Frostback Mountains, pulling her dark brown cowl over her flaming red hair. Piercing grey eyes were focused only on the path which lay before her, the entrance into Orzammar. The dwarves at the door tried to question her, but were swiftly silenced with a fearsome glare and the sight of the Warden's Oath hanging from her neck.

Once, next to the symbol of her debt in blood to the Grey Wardens, there had been a golden earring hanging on a chain like a necklace. It had been left behind in Antiva. She had known him for long enough to know that he would understand the gesture for what it was- a farewell she could not bear to say in person.

The dark cold was replaced by an orange ambient light and heat as she entered the City of Orzammar proper. Many passing dwarves gazed curiously at her, but swiftly moved on about their business upon seeing the glint of determination in her eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt her heart warming to know that those once casteless were now free to mingle among the rest of the populace, given a new chance on life.

_I made the wiser choice to put Bhelen on the throne._ she thought. _Zevran was right- Harrowmont was too much of a coward. Like Alistair. Too weak to be king._

Harsh though she was in her means, she had always done her best to aid the oppressed and the greater good. Giving Bhelen the throne, that he might free the casteless from a life of crime and poverty. Killing the Tevinter slavers that had infested Denerim. Forcing Zathrian to see the error of his ways and end the curse of the werewolves. Freeing her brother and sister mages from the oppressive clutches of the Templars and the Chantry. Would that she could have requested a second boon, and freed her clansmen of the Dales as well!

But such noble times had long passed. When it had been discovered what forbidden arts she'd used to ensure no sacrifice was made to destroy the archdemon- what lost, dark spellcraft she'd made consistent use of since the day she was freed from the Circle- it had been made perfectly clear that so long as the Chantry and its fear and zealotry controlled Thedas, there would be no welcome place for her. Her status as a Grey Warden only gave her free passage for so long.

So it was to be a life forever on the run for her and her beloved. She smiled wryly. _In a way, this is a mercy. It means an end to fleeing. Finally, I can stand and fight, and die an honorable death._

She stood now before the entrance to the Deep Roads. Bhelen had informed the guards of her coming. They gazed up at her, eyes questioning. Wondering if her visit meant what they thought it did. Tytannial nodded as confirmation, then walked brisquely past the guards into the Deep Roads. She listened behind her to the finality of the heavy stone doors being closed, sealing her in to her fate.

So she walked, taking her time, waiting for the darkspawn to sense her. Her bow was drawn and prepared to fire at a moment's notice. Here, miles below Thedas, there was a suffocating stillness- a silence broken to an outsider by only the movements of the darkspawn, and the steps of the elven intruder. A smile played at the corner of Tytannial's mouth as she listened to a sweet music, a soothing lullaby which only she could hear. A song which was both sweet symphony and reqiuem mass to a Warden listener.

Accompanying the music were whispers of a ring on her finger that had long spoken to her. Common sense, common decency, and her beloved had begged her for ages to remove the damned thing, but she could not. For in its vague whisperings she could understand more clearly how to use the power in her blood to its full effectiveness. Curiosity had always been her master- and more than a small part of her had wished to thumb her nose at the Templars that had held her captive for so long by pursuing an art viewed as forbidden.

_Application. It has always been application._ she mused. The whisperings of the horde grew stronger. Her smile grew wider. _They are coming. It is time to give them a taste of one of their own tainted ones._

Her bow and arrows were placed onto her back once more, and she threw her arms out in a gesture of welcome for the changes overcoming her- a spell she credited to a long gone Witch of the Wilds. Eight gnarled, deformed legs now crawled close to the ground, where once two well-formed ones had walked. The Taint within her, once controlled, now ran rampant through her body, mandibles dripping with venom. It was not long before they were upon her.

There were easily twenty darkspawn in this scouting group. When first she came to Orzammar, such a fight frightened her. Truly, it was only because of Wynne they had even survived the first journey down here during the Blight. But now- now she could face this pathetic bunch alone.

_They shall have to send more than this to bring an end to me!_ she thought, spitting venom at the closest Hurlock before turning and launching herself for the Genlock who was trying to stab her vulnerable spot, pinning him to the ground, not ceasing until he was devoured, his taint, his corruption filling her.

Returning abruptly to her original form, she sliced an arrowhead across her palm, slashing her bleeding hand through the air, easily immobilizing the entire force surrounding her. She started to laugh as they fell, one by one, the corrupted blood boiling in their veins, until most all of them were dead. Those few who survived fled back to inform the rest of the horde.

Bloodlust beginning to set in, Tytannial laughed, mirth flowing in her blood. _They shall return in greater numbers. I shall go to greet them._

She drew her bow and arrows, charging for the horde which sought her. And find them she did. Many dozens of emissaries and alphas, shrieks filling the air with their ungodly screeching, and at the fore of the group, a massive Ogre, which roared loudly, sending blood and spittle flying in her face.

Suddenly, memory transported her to Ostagar. Then, seeing the hulking creature, she had been consumed by fear. Now, her twisted smile grew wider. _Hello, beast._

* * *

Blood stained the stone floors of the Deep Roads. Darkspawn corpses lie pierced with arrows, ripped to shreds, exsanguinated. The ogre was frozen solid, its blood pulled from its veins as it stayed immobile. In the midst of the carnage lay an elven woman, cowl cast aside. Robes torn to pieces. Tytannial saw the Oath she had taken so long ago laying next to her head- its chain broken, its container shattered. The blood of the darkspawn and the last archdemon flowed towards her head. Dark, coagulated blood stained the fiery red of her hair. It was spattered on her face, her body, everywhere.

They were all dead. But _more would come_. More _always_ came. But she could fight no more. She was completely drained of mana, and soon to be drained of blood. She had left all healing items behind, with him, because she knew. She knew how this would end. In the end, all that was left was blood- and the song.

"Mi amor!"

Tytannial sighed at the incredibly familiar, utterly impossible voice which greeted her ears over the beckoning music in her mind. She chuckled. "I am uncertain if this is my mind being most cruel or most kind to me, to send me a vision of you."

Arms wrapping around her, cradling her. The scent of leather, his natural musk. No. This was no dream. The sense images were too strong. Grey eyes grew wider. "How did you find me?"

Zevran's eyes met her own. "Did you honestly believe I would not know, My Warden? I knew where you'd gone as soon as I found the symbol of our bond left on the bedside table."

_**He is strong... Use... blood... Drain... Live...**_

She heard the dark whisperings of the ring on her finger urging her to use a spell she'd used only once before, then swore never to use again.

_No..._

_**Must... hear song... must live... kill... and live...**_

The siren call of the lullaby, accompanied by the crooning whispers of the ring which tuned out the voice of her beloved, broke her will. _Yes... I will kill..._

She smiled seductively at Zevran, effectively disarming him with her smoldering gaze. She palmed a spare arrowhead from her pockets, and leaned upwards into his neck, kissing it softly, and nibbling at his soft flesh as she brought the concealed arrowhead closer and closer to his pounding pulse. Soon, she would have his blood in her veins, and-

The spell was broken when Zevran's dagger entered her chest. Her conscious mind returned, and she felt his tears falling onto her shoulder. She embraced her beloved one last time, whispering to him, "Thank you..."

Zevran felt the weight of his love increase in his arms as life finally left her. He cradled her unconscious body in his arms, giving her forehead a soft kiss. After one last tender moment, he released her, pulling the dragon-covered ring from her finger and clutching it in his hand. He pulled one of the torches from the wall, and set Tytannial's corpse ablaze.

_She would've wanted it that way. To be consumed in flame. In something so fleeting, so powerful, but beautiful, just as she was._

His face was grim as he gazed at the ring in his hand, standing on the edges of the Deep Roads nearest the flowing lava. He could hear it whispering to him as well, but would not allow it to consume his thoughts as it had nearly consumed his love's. He flung the ring into the lava, watching it melt and sink back into the earth from which it was forged.

Leaving behind the ashes of a funeral pyre and the memories of the woman he loved, Zevran walked for the surface as he was always made to be- alone.


	2. In Uthenera Na Revas

**In Uthenera Na Revas**

It was the time of the Arlathvhen, the meeting of the leaders of the Dales, a time of celebration of a culture lost long ago, of putting aside the differences of tribe and clan, and uniting as one people for a day of reverence to the traditions of old.

Vhenaran, her faced marked in the Vir Tanadahl of Andruil, knelt in meditation and reverence, as she had before receiving her vallas'lin, awaiting the final judgment of the Keepers' council. Her request was a strange one- an ancient tradition no longer invoked, as the only eternal sleep the elvhen now entered was that of death. She wished to be guided into the Beyond, into eternal sleep, as the ancestors did.

The tainted calling ran deep and strong in her blood, but she would not allow herself to succumb to it. She was a strong and proud warrior, but she knew if she entered the Deep Roads a final time, her end would be needlessly violent and painful.

_I wish to face my passage into the Beyond with some shred of dignity intact._ she thought, keeping her eyes closed. _For in life, I sacrificed nearly all of it._

It was truly a wonder that the Keepers were even deigning to hear her request, or even allow her into the arlathvhen. Tamlen's fate was blamed on her. Her skills were those of the shems who had driven them from their old homeland. Rumors of her willingness to consort with shemlens and flat-ears- of both genders- shamed her. As did the child she had lost so shortly after one of her lovers had passed beyond the Veil in slaying the archdemon.

_It was to be me that day. You were to survive, to become King. Instead, you took the blow that was mine, the death in honor which was due to me. You shame me, shemlen prince. Alistair..._

A hand was on her shoulder, and she opened her eyes- deep green as the darkest forest- to see Keeper Zathrian's second Lanaya looking down on her with pity in her eyes. "They are ready for you, lethallan."

She rose with a simple nod, and walked into the tent where the Keepers were gathered. She recognized them all, but only Marethari and Zathrian were deigning to meet her eyes. The others were content to ignore her presence, so it seemed. All the same, she was composed, bearing herself with a pride which had been lost within her for years because it was what she must do. The former Commander of the Grey could not be seen to be weak or vulnerable, after all.

Vhenaran could feel Marethari's eyes sweeping over her, seeing how the years as a Warden had changed her from their last farewell. Her skin had tanned even darker, being in the sun rather than in the shadows of the forest, her hair beginning to leach of its color, blonde fading far too swiftly for an elf into grey. Her complexion was still smooth, her body still taut, betraying her relative youth, but she carried now the demeanor and poise of great age.

"We have considered your request, da'len." Marethari stated, looking Vhenaran in the eye. "And we have decided to aid you. We shall lead you into slumber which will take you to the Beyond."

"Ma serannas, Keeper Marethari." Vhenaran replied, bowing her head in respect. "It is a better death than I deserve."

"I shall be the one to guide you through your final hours, lethallan." Zathrian stated, approaching the Warden. "I owe you this much for having both saved my clan and offered our people our own lands."

To this, the woman could only nod in response. She was prepared for this. It was her time. She followed Zathrian and Marethari's lead outside, towards the outskirts of the encampment. Lanaya stood by, a sapling bound to her staff.

Vhenaran knelt before the Keepers, looking up as Marethari held out to her a large leaf, which contained a liquid that shone in the setting sun like golden water.

"Drink of this draught, and know peace, da'len. Dareth shiral. May the Creators guide your path." Marethari murmured, offering one last pitying gaze to the child she had witnessed grow to womanhood.

Vhenaran drank from the leaf, and gently set it aside. As she waited for the effects of the draught to come forth, she reflected upon the life she had lead. Keeper Zathrian's voice reciting the Rites of Uthenera faded into a dull litany amidst it all.

"Hahren na melana sahlin..."

_Ashabelath... the woman of many loves... She knows only sorrow. Mythal, protect me from Elgar'nan's wrath, that I may pass in peace..._

"Emma ir abelas..."

_Sylaise, forgive me, for I could not pass a child of our People into this world..._

"Souver'inan isala hamin..."

_Andruil, let my faithful following of your path lead me. I have never allowed myself to break. Not even in the end._

"Vhenan him dor'felas..."

_Falon'Din, guide my steps. Lead me safely into the Beyond..._

"In uthenera na revas."

_Creators, I am so tired..._

The herbs were working their powerful magic. Her eyes closed- they were too heavy with sleep to keep open. The siren song pulling at her mind, calling into her blood was falling now upon ears which could no longer hear it. Tension drained from her muscles, breathing and heart slowing to a final stop, and only then did consciousness finally forsake her, leaving her in the sleep from which she would never awaken.

The body was returned to the earth, a tree planted upon her resting place. There was a moment of silence, and then, the sapling was left to the stillness and peace of the forest, where it might grow strong on the heart of one who had truly shown u'suledin halamshiral- the will to endure alone until the end of the journey.


	3. A Final Return Home

**A Final Return Home**

The heavy weight of his crown was something Kaedan Cousland left behind as he rode for his childhood home in Highever. Anora, he was certain, was sound asleep at this late hour. By the time she awoke and found his note, it would already be finished. Certainly, she would gain the public's sympathies- the widowed queen who had so tragically lost her Warden husband to his early death.

_'Tis most strange..._ he reflected to himself as he rode on, his russet hair flowing in the wind behind him. _How much I grew to care for her. I became fond of Anora, my queen. But I never loved her. _He turned hazel eyes upon the starlit sky. _That honor belongs only to you, my dark Wilder._

His love had long since left his side, crossed to a world beyond, where he could not follow. She had been wounded by his betrayal- his seeking of another woman besides her. It was never his intent to betray her- he'd wanted Alistair to rule by Anora's side, but he'd granted Alistair the right to carry out the revenge he so longed for. Kaedan had only wanted Howe dead. Loghain, wicked though he was, though Howe was in his pocket, was still a hero to Ferelden. Had he any control over the situation, he'd have stopped Alistair from ending Loghain, but he moved on instinct. Anora would have no husband of the man who'd killed her father. And in truth, Kaedan himself was younger, only barely twenty years old at the time. He would have more of a chance to produce an heir on the throne.

That chance, however, was never realized. Conceiving had proven difficult for him- even more so with the knowledge that Anora was likely infertile. In the interest of avoiding a succession crisis, he'd made it clear in his letter that Bann Teagan was to assume the throne in the event of Anora's death. _He will be a good ruler, fair and just._

Highever had become a ghost town in the years since the deaths of his parents and Arl Howe. The only sounds now filling the night were the steps of his horse. Spirits were rumored to walk the streets, the Veil to the Fade torn over this place of slaughter.

Kaedan dismounted his horse as he reached the front door of his childhood home, and pushed it open with a loud creak. It was fitting that he return here as the song of the Old Gods reached his ears at last- for it was here where he felt he truly saw the end of his life. Kaedan Cousland, a lad eager for combat, idealistic and optimistic, yearning for the glory of war had passed away the night the rest of his family was betrayed and slaughtered like animals. The King, the Hero the rest of Ferelden had come to revere arose in his place- a man who would trust no more in the inherent goodness of people, who allowed- and even reveled in- the act of taking sweet vengeance. The firm, but just ruler.

It was rage and hatred that motivated him. It had made him strong in the eyes of his companions and in combat. There was no warrior in the land as fierce as he- greatsword cutting a merciless swath through hordes of darkspawn, the heart of a high dragon beating in his chest, a blood covered _god_ of the battlefield, as the minstrels would have it known.

But truly? He had become tired over the years. His only thrill remained in combat, and now, even that seemed empty. Which is why he chose not to enter the Deep Roads, but to return to the place of his 'death' so many years ago.

He could still remember that night clearly in his mind. How Arlington, his faithful mabari- who had finally passed not a year ago- had awoken him in the middle of the night to warn him of the intruders. How he and his mother, shocked and frightened, had fought to reach his father. The looks upon his parents' faces as Duncan was pulling him away to safety, leaving them to their deaths.

Moisture that was not blood was running down from his eyes for the first time in nearly two decades. Never did he regret his actions as a Warden or as King, no matter how immoral some argued they were. He'd had no choice but to annul the Circle- the mages were too dangerous. The werewolves deserved their vengeance upon Zathrian and the Dales- he'd never cared much for the Dales regardless, the proud savages. The golems were too valuable of a resource to waste. And what little faith he'd once had in the Maker was shattered on that dreadful night- the ashes were of no use to him. But leaving his father and mother behind to become a Warden in the first place, abandoning them when he could have saved them- that was his one regret.

He was in the larder now, where the secret passage which once spirited him away from his home was located. Where his mother and father died in each others' company.

_Where I should have perished._

On this night, he wore neither heavy armor nor kingly raiment. Instead, he wore the plain clothes he had always worn around the house when guests were away. The King, the Hero of Ferelden had been left behind in Denerim. Now he was merely Kaedan Cousland. And Kaedan Cousland was prepared at last to die.

Rage filled him like a cup boiling over for the last time. He slammed his fists, feet, his entire body against the cold stone walls. He tore ancient remnants of meat to shreds with his bare hands. Turned wooden shelves into splinters. Even set cracks into the stone as he hit, and kicked, and bashed his head against the wall.

He knew he was shattering every bone in his body, crushing his own skull, but he no longer cared. All he wanted was to rage, to feel _alive_ one last time before his life expired.

His bones were broken past the point of use. His legs would no longer support him. Blood matted his hair, and he lay on the ground, exhaustion finally overwhelming him. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling. After a long moment, he heard his mother's voice, soft and familiar.

"There you are, Kaedan." she greeted, brushing some stray hairs out of his eyes. She looked just as he'd recalled her. "Your father and I have been waiting for you."

"I know..." Kaedan rasped, his breath beginning to still. "I'm... home..."

When Anora sent soldiers to Highever to search for her husband, they could not find his remains. All they found was a wolf howling to the moon as if in sorrow on the cliffs near the castle.


	4. One Last Brawl

**One Last Brawl**_  
_

_Sod it all._ Faren Brosca thought to himself, scuffing his feet against the stone which served as the floor of his home and prison. _It all began with the Provings, of sodding course it would end with them._

He ran his meaty, callused hands over his age-withered face with a hefty sigh. He'd been hearing the call of the darkspawn for a year now. He'd spent far too many hours at Tapsters with Oghren knocking back ales and reminiscing on the good old days to ignore it. But it would no longer be ignored. The time had come to fight or die. And Faren Brosca was not a man who backed down from a fight.

It was supposed to be just one final round in the Provings, for old time's sake, then off to the Deep Roads like a Legionaire to die in glorious battle against the darkspawn. But he wasn't minding his daggers all that well. One of them slipped. Slipped and accidentally chopped off some poor duster's head. At least, that was the excuse he was giving.

_Bloody nug-humpers don't have a sense of humor anymore._ he grumbled to himself. _Now I'm stuck in this sodding dustbin until I rot or Bhelen decides to put me to death._

He stroked the matted salt-and-pepper braids in his beard as he thought over his options. _Don't have my weapons, my armor, or anything useful on me. Could pick the lock, try a prison break, but I wouldn't get far. Sit here and wait, I'll go crazy listening to the calling. If the Taint doesn't kill me first. Or I get dishonored even more than I already have and get publicly executed by the 'merciful' King Bhelen, who's serving as judge, jury, and executioner around here. Though how I can fall any farther from being a Paragon to being a sodding criminal is beyond me._

Heavy footsteps heralded the prison guard's return to his post outside Faren's cell.

_Sod it. Even if it gets my ass killed, I'm busting out of here._

"Hey! Hey you! Guard!" Faren taunted. "Whatcha been bathing in? Piss and ale? Or didja come out stinking like a sodding-!"

That did it. The guard was at his throat. "Now listen, you-!"

Faren smirked. Sneaky he may have been, but he was a brawler if ever there was one. _Oh, this is gonna bring back some good times...  
_  
He grabbed the prison guard's armor, and used it to heft him towards the cell, bashing his skull open against the bars. Sliding a hand into the guard's pouch, he found the key to his cell door. Opening it from within, he stepped out, cracking his knuckles.

"All right! Which one of you sodding dusters is man enough to take me on?" he challenged, gruff voice echoing throughout the prison complex.

_Like taking candy from a baby._

The guards, alerted to a prisoner on the loose, flooded the area, surrounding the escapee. Despite the insurmountable odds, the only thing the criminal did as he was encircled was smirk.

He was back in the world he was born in. A world of crumbling stone and stinking sweat. Of blood and bruises and toxins. Of fighting with every fiber of his being just to stay alive. He lost count of the number of guards he was brawling against after a while. How many times did he need to keep track of the heads he cracked?

Just like the Provings every time he'd competed there, there was no one who could stand against him. But damned if the blighters didn't leave him more wounded than he wanted to consider.

_Bhelen... Needs to get... Better guards... Could've taken... Fifty more of those dusters..._

Faren's clothes were ripped open. Gashes painted his body the ruddy crimson of his hair. Age and his injuries combined slowed his movements as he walked for the exit. He could feel the burn of Deathroot Extract in his veins. He wouldn't be able to move much longer.

The exit was right in front of him now. He allowed his weight to fall against the door, pushing it open and sending him toppling out into the streets.

_Free... at last..._


	5. Song and Silence

**Song and Silence**

The deafening silence of the Deep Roads was broken abruptly by the hastened footfalls of a young woman. Bow and arrows at her back, dagger in hand, she fled not _from_ the darkspawn, but ever further into their hold.

She paused in her tracks, heavily out of breath. She brushed a flame flyaway from her eyes and cursed, "_Zut!_"

Leliana took a moment to regain her composure before she set off again. She could remember all too clearly why she was setting off into these forgotten passageways, where darkspawn and certain death awaited. That reason was an elven woman with skin ivory fair, tousled silken locks that shone like spun gold, lithe and graceful as any dancer, smooth as silk, but a will strong as steel. _Sephira... My love..._ _Maker, please, please do not let me be too late..._

She could still remember the day they first met. How Sephira had tried and nearly succeeded in convincing Loghain's men she and her companions were not Grey Wardens. How she'd slipped away to a place of concealment to fire at the men from cover. Her strong threats to their master as she sent them off. It was not merely Leliana's vision from the Maker- which she still stood by today, even in the face of ridicule from others and even her beloved- which made her long to follow Sephira. There was something about her, some electric magnetism that drew her in. That same charisma which could rob a miser of his coin, make a sinner of a saint was what made her fall in love.

Leliana remembered a hand on her shoulder by the fire, a comforting embrace following the confrontation with Marjolaine. The night when the blonde elf told her she still trusted her, even if no one else did. The night where the fire was not the source of the warmth spreading throughout her body. A night of soft, sweet kisses and tender caresses to flesh denied such pleasure in the Chantry. Zevran's leering eyes from afar- and how neither of them cared if he watched or not. The first night they made love.

She remembered a musical laugh, being teased for her jealousy upon hearing Sephira was due to be married before she left home. The romantic kiss as Sephira assured Leliana she was hers to the end. The conflict Sephira felt at having Alistair perform Morrigan's Dark Ritual. Whether or not Leliana agreed with the decision to have such a dread ritual performed, she was, in the end, thankful, for it had given her twenty years with her lover she otherwise would not have had.

The Deep Roads had gone suddenly, deafeningly, eerily silent. The Orlesian bard could no longer hear the footsteps of the darkspawn, the voices of the horde in the distance. Their foul stench, though still present, was nowhere near as prominent as it had been just moments prior. The absence of sensory information unnerved her far more than any monster she could encounter at this point.

She walked onward for what seemed an eternity, ever listening, ever vigilant. These winding halls of the Dead Trenches were silent and still, unlike the last time she'd been through here. The darkspawn here had either moved on, been killed, or worse, were pulling back to prepare an ambush. Finally, through the stillness of the tombs, she heard a lilting female voice speaking a sickeningly familiar rhyme.

"First day they come, and catch everyone..."

_No... Maker, no!_ Leliana thought, hastening her footsteps.

"Second day they beat us, and eat some for meat..."

Hespith was long dead, and the voice was too high. Somewhere inside, Leliana feared she knew who spoke the rhyme, but she did not want to believe it.

"Third day, the men are all gnawed on again..."

_She said in her letter she was going back to Denerim to say goodbye to her family in the Alienage... Did Soris and Shianni tag along after her?_ Leliana wondered, her alarm growing with the realization of the possibility. Her footsteps hastened again.

"Fourth day we wait, and fear for our fate..."

The voice was getting louder even as it cracked and broke. Leliana rounded one final corner, and saw what had become of her beloved Sephira. The wraith shambling across this mausoleum was not the woman she had seen two weeks prior. Her pale skin was no longer ethereal, but sallow. Her cheeks were sunken in, black shadows which bled into the splotches of corruption on her body lingering beneath her eyes. Her hair was choppy, uneven, patches of it had fallen out. Her eyes were clouded and dull, not the sharp, piercing grey she recalled them to be. Her whole body was skeletal, save for her stomach, which had swelled to such a degree it had stretched and shredded the clothes she wore.

"Sephira!" Leliana cried out, rushing to her lover's side, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Sephira, I'm here..."

The blonde elf turned her head towards the one addressing her, her face expressionless. "You...? No. Impossible. A vision of better times, sent to torment me, that's what you are... Fifth day they return, and it's another girl's turn..."

"Sephira, my love, it's me!" the bard shouted, tears pricking her eyes. She had both hands on her beloved's shoulders to hold her still. "What happened to you...?"

Sephira stared blindly into the eyes of the woman addressing her, murmuring, "Sixth day her screams we hear in our dreams... Shianni first, always Shianni first... the screams... the hellish shrieks... So many Shrieks..." She looked down towards the sickening mass of her stomach. "My turn soon... punishment for not bearing child before..."

Leliana shook her head, tears falling from her eyes. "No, my love, no. The Maker would not punish you like this... This is foul. Evil. Nothing divine caused this."

The bard knew what was soon to come for her beloved. She remembered the horrific creature they had seen when last they came down into these hellish trenches. Broodmother. Her expression hardened as she drew out her dagger. "It will not happen while I can stop it. I will not have you become something so foul. My love, forgive me..."

The only sound Sephira made as her life expired was a sharp intake of breath, which faded into a sickening gurgle as she collapsed. Leliana felt her heart sink that even in the end, not a single trace of her beloved could work itself to the surface. In those last moments, there was no real recognition, no thanks. Merely death and the Song as it faded to silence.


	6. As You Wish

**As You Wish**

Regardless of what happened in her life, there was one constant Sereda Aeducan held as a mantra in her mind: face all with dignity and honor. She could not recall who it was that had planted this saying, this sense of honor so deeply in her mind. Had it been her good father, King Endrin? Or had she read it somewhere in her studies? She could not recall, but the source mattered little to her- only its meaning.

She had always believed the truest ruler was the one who cared for their people as their family, their companions. It was because of that the human throne was granted to Alistair. It was because of that belief that she trusted her brothers. It was because of that faith she found herself betrayed. She knew as soon as Bhelen and her father saw her standing by Trian's corpse, there was no fighting the outcome. She had been politically outplayed by a man ruthless for the throne. She killed the retainer that had spoken against her out of sheer spite, to demonstrate the wrath of a dwarven princess betrayed, but in her own defense, she remained silent. She appealed to her father's knowledge of her nature, but said nothing further in protest.

_It's strange._ she mused, walking through the streets of the Diamond Quarter for what she knew would be the final time. _The last time I was locked into the Deep Roads was when I faced exile._

She could still recall the weariness of her father's face as he handed down her sentence. Stripped of her name, title, armor, all but a basic sword that wouldn't even hack its way into the Provings, she showed no emotion as the heavy stone doors closed and sealed her in.

From that moment forward, though she did upgrade her weaponry, she never allowed herself the luxury of armor. Armor was worthy only of a strong, powerful dwarven queen- a warrior to lead the people. She less than both, so long as her exile stood. Sereda knew for certain one day she would return and claim the throne that, with Trian dead, was hers by blood. And when she did, Bhelen would know precsely whom he had been foolish enough to cross. Until then, she would work and fight with only the clothes on her back and weapons she picked up from monsters slain along the way.

And the day of her return eventually came. She feigned niceties with her brother, supporting him and gaining the Anvil of the Void to forge an army of golems to defend dwarvenkind. And then, just when it appeared her brother was poised for victory, she handed the crown to Harrowmont. He was gravely injured for his attempt at a coup, but was not killed. Sereda saw to it that he was placed in prison. Admittedly, she took a great deal of pleasure in putting his soul to the Anvil when she finally ousted Harrowmont and took over as the rightful queen.

As queen, she was known as a woman who made certain her will was translated into action if it was for the benefit of all parties involved. A husand and children? What need had she of those hindrances? She was determined her reign would be remembered on her _own_ merits, not on the merit of the men she mated with and produced. So, beautiful as her dark and strong features were, there were none who would carry them.

_There was only one man I was ever willing to marry regardless..._ she thought to herself, her dark grey eyes the only thing belying the regret beneath a mask of stoicism. _And he chose to marry another on the surface. Yet he is the only person who has any true loyalty to me. I shall see how deeply that loyalty runs as soon as I reach the Deep Roads._

Sereda nodded briefly at the men standing guard at the doors to the Deep Roads. They sank into one final bow for her, then pulled them open. Standing just within the stone doors was a man who had always stood by her side. The queen felt relieved at the sight. Even if they were never again connected in the same way they had once been, he had always remained loyal to her.

Gorim bowed his head respectfully to his queen before raising his eyes to meet her. He had a few more wrinkles than when last they fought together, limped on a bad leg, and had quite a bit more grey in his sandy beard and hair, but he looked much the same as always. "Are you prepared to depart, my Paragon?"

Sereda nodded in response. "Let it be done."

She turned back with Gorim to face the city of Orzammar's ambient amber light for one final time. She surveyed the city as he surveyed her, the woman who had always been too high for him to reach. He watched the light of the city tinge the silver streaks of her dark brown hair a fiery orange, looking upon the ever-composed features of her face.

Sereda did not react as Gorim took her hand, though the tellingly intimate gesture meant more to her than she was willing to express publicly. The view of her kingdom became smaller and smaller as the doors slowly came to a final close before her.

Queen and retainer turned as one to look upon the endless roads of darkspawn that awaited them. Sereda's face showed not joy, but a sense of quiet relief at the thought of the honorable, glorious battle and death that awaited her. For in that fighting, she and Gorim would find an end- and at last, a place in the Stone.

"Gorim," she began, looking him in the eye, "thank you. For being such a loyal ally. Let us be off. To death and victory!"

The old, blond dwarf smiled and bowed to his queen. "As you wish, my Paragon."

Regardless of what treacherous monsters the Deep Roads would spew from its foulest depths, it did not matter. In death, as in love and life, Sereda had dignity and the companionship of her most faithful servant.


	7. No Rest for the Good

**No Rest For the Good**

Darien Tabris sighed with exhaustion as he entered his home in the Denerim Alienage, having just spent nearly the entire day working the docks. It was hard, menial labor, but he preferred that to the sort of thing he'd been forced to do in years past. _Better this than constant battling against the darkspawn._

After King Alistair's noble death in defeating the archdemon, Darien had tried his best to avoid becoming famous and known. He insisted his fellows go back to treating him like just another elf in the alienage, not some sort of hero. Though he'd once taken a fair bit of pleasure in rather theatrical displays of heroism- particularly in his rescue of the women of the Alienage, which he conducted in his wedding clothes because they looked sort of princely- now, he resigned himself to the quiet life.

Surprised at the lack of pitter-pattering of small feet approaching him, Darien's brow furrowed, soft green eyes showing his worry. _That's strange... Lyla and Nesiara should be home now, unless there's some note I've missed..._

He cast a sharp eye around the main living area of his small, cramped apartment, and found no signs of any life. He ran a now somewhat bony hand through his greying brown hair to keep it out of his face as he began examining the small apartment.

As he rounded the one corner in the cramped space, a startled tenor gasp fled from his lips. Lying on the pitiful excuse for a mattress was Nesiara, her light blonde hair stained with blood. All light and life had left her eyes, which were now half-lidded. Her stomach and her coin purse had both been slit open.

_Maker, no..._ Darien thought to himself. _No, no, no, no, no! This can't be happening... This shouldn't be happening... _

He'd warned her not to come back to him, that living with him would be dangerous after what he had done. Anora might have granted him amnesty, but the guard was not so forgiving. Being together would be dangerous. But Nesiara returned regardless. And worried though he'd been at first, his worries were eclipsed in happiness when he heard she was with child. Though it was rather clear the child was not his by blood due to the difficulty Grey Wardens had in conceiving, he still cared for Little Lyla as if she were his own blood. They were his family.

And now, someone had robbed him of the ones he cared about the most. There was no trace of Lyla in the apartment, meaning she was gone already. Though who had robbed his wife of her life and spirited away his daughter, Darien had no idea. Perhaps the guards finally saw a way to gain their vengeance. Perhaps the Tevinters had found a way to return, using the corruption in the capital to re-establish their sick slave trade. Shianni had been the loudest activist- and she'd been the first to vanish when people began to disappear. And now whoever was causing the disappearances had his _daughter_.

It was in the dark and bloody vengeance brewing in the back of his mind that Darien began to hear the first strains of a sinister melody. It was unlike any music he'd ever heard, ever played as a bard. The closest thing he had ever heard to it was the voice of the Brecilian Forest, but even that did not compare to the strange, eerie, unearthly song which now echoed through his mind.

_Somehow I knew it was coming._ he thought grimly, standing up. _The nightmares... I thought they were just remnants of the stress and the trials of the past, but now I'm certain that this is it. My Calling._

He crossed to the chest in the corner of the room, pulling open the broken lock and opening it. Within the chest was a set of leather armor, two daggers, an intricate Dalish longbow and a quiver of arrows said to be blessed by Andraste. He let a broken sigh escape his lips before he began moving as he had not for ten years and donning a suit of armor and weapons.

Once dressed, he knelt by the bed and examined a powder which lay on the floor. He sniffed it briefly, and the sharp influx of arcane energies he felt made him realize precisely what it was. _Lyrium dust. Usually only carried around by templars who need to subdue a magic-user. No one know for certain who Lyla's father is. She could be of magical blood. But even if she is a mage, there is no justification in killing a mother to rip the child from her arms._

He knew his course now. He rose from his kneeling position with a glint of determination in his eyes that had not been there for years.

_I don't know or care who you are, Templars. Or why you've taken my daughter._ he thought, drawing and examining his dagger. It seemed just the right sharpness for gutting a few tin-plated zealots. _But know this. I will hunt you down for this. And when I find you, the ones who destroyed my family, I will kill you._

He took a moment to whistle for his lupine familiar before setting off, a sense of power and purpose flooding him which he had not felt since the death of the archdemon. _I hear the voice of the Old God, but that is not my true Calling. This..._ He thought back to the faces of his beloved and their child. **_This_**_ is my true Calling. And if I face my death here, then so be it._

It was with this thought in mind that he left for the Circle of Magi on Lake Calenhad, leaving behind him the warm, pleasant memories of the family life he could have had.


	8. A Last Divine Act

A Divine Last Act

The snowy air of the Frostback Mountains blew ominously past Damian Amell, sending his graying black hair floating in a cloud around him as he stood in the entrance of the Temple of the Sacred Ashes. Standing here, in the presence of one of the most sacred items the Maker allowed to remain on Thedas, he felt humbled. _I know I am merely a mage, beloved Andraste, but I pray that if I spend this time when darkspawn howl for my blood in one last act of service to you, that you will forgive the sins of my people._

When last he'd come to the steps of this ancient temple, he and his companions had feared the presence of the High Dragon which lingered there atop the mountain's peak. Feared it too much to take any action against it. But now, after many, many years of training and honing his craft, Damian feared the beast no longer.

He was blessed by a Spirit of the Fade, just as Wynne had once been. He hoped this would mean that the Maker watched over him, and would prevent him from falling before he defeated this dreaded dragon. He could feel the healing energies of the spirit surrounding him, and he knew he _would not fall_. The very earth on which he walked, greatest of the Maker's gifts to man, would not _allow_ him to perish.

Surrounded by energy from the mortal plane and the Fade, Damian opened his black-brown eyes, a surge of blue sparking within them. It was time, for the sake of all those who sought the Sacred Ashes as part of their hope, to bring an end to this dragon. Just as he laid down the Archdemon with the dead King Alistair, he would bring down this creature.

He placed the former cultist's horn to his lips, and sounded a call for the beast to come to him. He knew he could not wait for the sound of beating wings to come to prepare himself. He drew the staff from his back, and with a brief incantation, felt the magical energies around him increase tenfold. Letting the snow and ice focus his mind, he let the next spell come to his lips as the harsh cry of the dragon echoed right over his head.

Not a moment too soon, the dragon was being slowed and pelted by ice, snow, and hail beyond that which normally lingered in these mountains. Damian ran swiftly outside the heaviest area of the blizzard, and began chanting his next spell, paying no heed to his level of exhaustion. The ozone in the air grew thick and heavy, thunder rumbling through the clouds above. It was as if the Maker himself was lending Damian his fury towards this beast desecrating the burial grounds of his beloved bride.

Lightning struck the ground, forcing Damian to open his eyes. What he saw was the High Dragon being buffeted about and contained by a cyclone too strong for it to break. Unwilling to leave anything to chance, he forcefully injected a corrosive and explosive poison in the dragon's system which would kill her before she could reach him. As one final measure, he allowed the forces of the earth to come to his aid, and summoned gigantic roots from the barren, icy ground to pierce and cage the dragon.

Exhausted, the last of his mana expired and no lyrium with him, Damian fell to his knees, eyes turned towards heaven and the glorious arcane spectacle before him. _Maker, I thank you for allowing me this gift. And I beg of you, let this be enough to finish this beast, for I can do no more._

All the blessings he'd felt upon him before the battle began were gone, for he lacked the mana to maintain them. He watched, helpless to do anything further as the storm subsided, and the dragon, roaring in fury, burst forth from her wooden cage. Suddenly, the song split Damian's mind, and he was no longer kneeling before a mere High Dragon, but before the Sixth Archdemon himself.

_No... No! I cannot allow myself to succumb to this!_ he thought furiously, reaching to his hip for the one last chance he had to slay this foe. Drawing the short sword, he forced himself to stand, and stare fearlessly into the eyes of the High Dragon. The beast reared, screeching in his face, but Damian did not falter.

Instead, he waited until the beast's feet collided with the ground again, and leapt into the air, sword before him, with a mighty cry. "_For Thedas!"_

The stab wound into the dragon's head was all it took to energize the virulent poison within it. Both mage and dragon were consumed in the explosion of bones, blood, and organs which rained upon the walkways before Andraste's burial place.

In mere hours, the snow had covered up the last of the blood, rendering the place once again pure. No one would ever know that Grey Warden Damian Amell's last act had been to clear the temple of the menace of the High Dragon.


	9. Before the Last Battle

Before the Last Battle

Blood and viscera was everywhere, staining what had once been the grounds of hope of an early victory against the Fifth Blight. All his fellow soldiers lay dead next to him. The King, damnable fool that he was, lay on the ground with his neck snapped. Leader of the Grey Wardens in Fereldan, Duncan, lie dead not far from him, his skull smashed by a darkspawn's axe. He looked up, and saw the signal, lit like the beacon of fragile hope. Why was no help coming? The armies were supposed to be coming, why was no one-? He looked over to where their reinforcements stood. Lightning cracked the sky, casting a menacing and familiar face into sharp relief. In the light and an eerie silence that had overtaken the battlefield, he saw the figure mouthing three words.

_"Sound the retreat."_

The lights of the army in waiting pulled away, the sky growing blacker by the second. There was no chance of survival now. They had no hope.

_No hope._

There was no end to them. The strongest arm of the horde had taken hold of Denerim. Trying to fight them was suicide. But fight he would, and defend the gates of the city he had won back from the Orlesians. This city had been invaded and lost times beyond counting. But it _would not happen again tonight._ Though many soldiers of the army of Redcliffe fell, he would not let himself be disheartened. He _could not_. His injuries were becoming more and more severe by the second, but he would not falter. He had to endure. For the sake of Ferelden, of the world, he _had to endure_.

He was atop Fort Drakon now. Battered, beaten, exhausted. The archdemon that had so fiercely roared in his face not minutes before lie before him, as exhausted as he was. This fighting had to end.

_He couldn't endure any longer._

Raising his blade, he charged for the barely-moving Archdemon, and drove the sword into its head. Light and energy overwhelmed him, the soul of the Old God moving into his body, seeking its own essence. He could not contain it- it was consuming him. _Consuming him_. He was being erased! The song filled his ears!

"NO!" Teyrn Loghain cried out, snapping awake in his bed. He forced himself to keep from shivering, though the sweat running down his body was cold as ice.

_Another nightmare._ he thought to himself, gazing at the symbol of the Grey Wardens emblazoned on his shield against the wall. _They've been getting more and more frequent as of late._ He could feel a sickness, a wrongness in his blood, and knew his time was upon him. _It is time for me to leave for the Deep Roads._

He was glad that his time in service to the Orlesian Grey Wardens had, in the last year, been brought to an end. So it would be from his own home that he left on this final journey. He went about the process of pulling on his armor, as he'd done many times before over the years, and had just sheathed his blade when he heard a familiar female voice address him from the doorway.

"Father?" she asked, stepping into the room. Loghain turned around to face his daughter, Queen Anora. She looked down for a few moments before turning her gaze back to her father, saying, "It's time, isn't it?"

He needn't respond. His silence was answer enough. Anora's eyes welled with tears, and she ran forward to embrace her father tightly for what she knew would be the last time.

"Don't go... Please..." she whispered, practically clinging to her father.

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. He stroked her hair comfortingly, as he'd always done when she ran to him, upset over something. "Anora, hush. It's over."

She looked up from the hard shoulder plates of his armor to glare at him. "Stop talking to me like I'm still a child! This is serious!"

A small smile quirked at the corner of his mouth as he saw and heard the pouting in that statement. Dear, sweet Anora, she was the same as she ever was. Running about, leading Cailan a merry chase, getting herself dirty, pouting when she didn't get her way. Loghain chuckled to himself, and whispered to her, "Daughters never grow up... They remain six years old with pigtails and skinned knees forever."

"Father..." she whimpered, holding him even more tightly.

Loghain cradled his little girl in his arms, savoring his last moments with her before he was to return to a world of darkness and blood and battle. _You knew all along this was only an extended waiting period before the actual execution. You truly are a cruel woman, Solona Amell, to give one the illusion of a life after joining the Grey._

A tear slipped from his eye at the thought of leaving his little girl truly alone in the world, and he held her even closer. _But... were it not for the second chance you gave me, I'd only have been redeemed through my death. You made me use the rest of my life to atone for what I'd done, earn my redemption through my actions, not by being a martyr. Without this chance, I'd never have truly regained the respect of the people. Nor would I have these last moments with my daughter to carry me through the battle to come._

The embrace had gone on for several minutes now, and Loghain had to force himself to let go of his daughter. Duty was first and foremost, after all. And Anora understood. She kissed her father on the cheek one last time, and whispered, "Maker watch over you, Father..."

He nodded. "Maker watch over us all."

As he stepped out of the room, and began his trek to exit the castle, one last stubborn tear slid down the teyrn's cheek. _You were a cruel, cruel woman, Solona Amell. Maker bless you._

The sound of the song was drowned out by the steps of his horse as he rode off into the night for the last time.


End file.
